


poison that never stung

by LouLa



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Feminization, M/M, Makeup, Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa
Summary: “What is with you?” Matty asks, leaning back to look up at Brady.“I want you to be my girlfriend.”
Relationships: Brady Tkachuk/Matthew Tkachuk
Comments: 16
Kudos: 202





	poison that never stung

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just watch the ASG and an idea enters your brain fully formed and you try to pawn it off on someone else via the kinkmeme but there's no takers and you spend forever writing it yourself because it refuses to leave you alone, ya know?
> 
> anyway, this is [that](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=5335758).
> 
> as alwaysalwaysalways, [Arunedh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arunedh/pseuds/Arunedh) is the realest, truest, foreverest bro and sticks with me even when I'm going off the deep end, thanks a million.
> 
> title is from Sedated by Hozier
> 
> I don't think there's anything of note to warn for that's not mentioned in the tags (please see the tags!) but if something sticks out that needs a warning, please feel free to let me know!
> 
> all mistakes are definitely my own.

Matty loves coming home for the summer. Of course, it’s still too soon and he’d rather be playing hockey for a couple more weeks, but it is what it is and home is home. The round one loss leaves a bitter taste, and almost being swept by the fucking Avs makes it even more sour. He digs his phone out of his pocket and fires off a quick _fuck you_ text to Josty to make himself feel better.

It’s two in the morning, but Josty responds right away, a bunch of kiss emojis. He’s probably living it up, on to round two after five fucking games. Matty doesn’t feel any better and stuffs his phone back into his pocket, watching the luggage carousel go around and around, waiting for his bags to finally make their way down the pipeline. He yawns and checks his watch.

He’s not expecting anyone to come get him, they’d all just gotten in the day before. After all the media bullshit, locker room clean out, saying goodbye to the boys, and packing, Matty nabbed the first flight that he could safely make it on. He’d let everyone know he’d be back in town soon, but only Brady had checked in about a time and then left him on read like a complete dick. Matty wouldn’t trek his ass to the airport in the middle of the night for him either though, honestly.

Arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, and Matty jolts. He tries not to panic in case it’s a weird fan that recognized him and decided to act overly familiar. He tucks his elbows down tight against his sides to quell the urge to jab backwards and dislodge them.

“Long time no see,” Brady’s voice ghosts over his ear, and Matty lets his elbow fly, throws it right into Brady’s ribs, and he _oof_s into Matty’s hair from the blow. “Jesus,” he wheezes. “What kinda thanks is that for me coming to pick you up?”

“Don’t sneak up on a guy and you won’t get taken out,” Matty says coolly.

Brady keeps his arm tossed over Matty’s shoulder, holds Matty snug up against his side. Matty would hate it, but he’s tired and Brady smells like he just showered which is welcome after locker rooms and cramped airplanes and the backseats of strangers’ cars.

“Where’s your shit?”

Matty nods to the carousel which is still empty, everything running extra slow to draw this night out a little while longer. Everyone around them looks dead on their feet, sagging parents holding passed out kids, couples braced against each other to stay upright. Brady is a live wire beside him, probably slept all day, and he drums his fingers to some indecipherable beat against Matty’s upper arm.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Matty breathes once the luggage starts rolling out. His bags are bright red and team branded, impossible to miss. Brady drags him forward and the people from his flight crush in around them, as anxious to grab their shit and get out of here as he is. There’s some odd looks at his bags, clocking his face, and Matty’s pretty sure at least a couple people put together who he is, but no one tries to approach them and Matty couldn’t be happier about it.

Brady shoulders most of the gear without Matty even having to ask and leads the way out, letting Matty trudge along behind him like a sulking child. It’s going to take another fifteen minutes at least to get out of parking, a solid thirty to get home, and Matty just wants to sleep. Should have gotten a solid night of sleep in and waited for a more reasonably timed flight, but the thought of still being stuck in Calgary without any more hockey to play makes his skin crawl.

“You hungry?” Brady asks after he’s set a playlist on low and started to back out of the parking space.

Matty whines unintelligibly, head leaned back against the seat. His stomach twists at the thought of food, half hunger and half disgust. He could eat; he should eat, but it’s just more time out of the way when he wants to be home already.

Brady doesn’t ask again, but he exits too early and pulls off into a Wendy’s drive through, orders without even checking first.

The frosty gets passed through the window and Matty takes it, knowing that Brady got it for himself—probably the only reason he stopped at Wendy’s at all, selfish prick that he is—but it's the only thing that sounds good from the order and he jabs a straw in and starts sucking it down.

“I got that for me,” Brady complains, but doesn’t try to take it. Matty keeps at it until he’s got a brain freeze and then hands it over.

He’s starving suddenly, the smell of food hitting him. He hasn’t had fries in forever and even the bland garbage ones sound good. He digs into the bag, stuffs a handful into his mouth.

“Pig,” Brady says, getting back onto the interstate. “It wouldn’t kill you to say thanks.”

“It might,” Matty hazards around a mouthful of flavorless potato.

Matty picks through the bag the whole ride home, eating more fries every couple of minutes while he tries to decide if he wants the burger, finally eating that too and finishing off the final dregs of the melted shake while he’s at it. He groans, eyes closed and hands rested on his stomach, once he’s done. He feels greasy all over, needs a fucking shower. He’s going to regret it in the morning, stomach already uneasy, but everything about the last couple of days has been a mess, might as well throw some fast food on the heap.

At least they’re almost home. Matty cranks up the music to try and keep himself awake for the last couple of minutes. It barely helps, and Matty fights his heavy lids, relieved when Brady exits, and a couple of miles later turns into their driveway, keys in the code for the gate. Brady again lugs most of the bags, Matty dragging the one with wheels lazily behind him as he follows Brady up to the garage. The house is quiet, everyone asleep since it’s the middle of the night, and Matty hopes he gets the whole usual reception in the morning. It will be better then anyway, when he’s not mostly dead. They head straight down the stairs to the basement, Brady leaving Matty’s shit next to the laundry room, and Brady follows him back to his bedroom, flops down onto Matty’s bed.

Matty makes a disinterested noise. “I’m going to bed, entertain yourself.”

“Boring,” Brady complains. Matty digs around in his dresser for clean sweatpants, undresses, and leaves his dirty clothes in the hamper. “You have a nicer ass than any of my girlfriends have had.”

Matty shoots a bewildered look over his shoulder, and Brady is just sitting there on his bed, leaned back on his palms, staring at him. “Quit looking, creep.” He flushes, holding his sweatpants in front of his junk as he turns, Brady’s eyes tracking his movements, watching him the whole way.

“You’re the one who got naked.”

“It’s my room, god. Get out,” Matty says, stalking toward the bathroom.

“Boring,” Brady repeats as he slowly makes his way out of the room.

—

Brady wakes him in the morning. It’s after eleven, but Matty still feels bone-deep exhausted. He shoves at Brady’s hip where he’s perched on the edge of the bed and drags a pillow over his head. “Go away.”

“Mom said you’re not allowed to sleep all day,” Brady tells him.

Matty knows that’s a lie. “Fuck off.”

“I’m telling her you said that.”

Matty knows that’s a lie too, punches Brady solidly in the thigh with all the strength he can muster so soon after waking and is surprised when Brady doesn’t even try to hit him back, just frowns at him and rubs his leg. Matty moves to punch him again but Brady catches his wrist, holds it tight. Matty jerks back hard but his grip doesn’t loosen, and Brady follows with him when Matty rolls, trying to pull his hand away. Brady climbs all the way onto the bed, over Matty, grabbing his other wrist and shoving them both up over Matty’s head, under the pillows, weight spread out across Matty’s back, keeping him held down.

“You’re heavy,” Matty groans.

Brady doesn’t let him up, digging his chin into Matty’s shoulder, pinning his hands effortlessly to the bed. Matty kicks weakly beneath him, not managing to make anything effectively land. Brady squeezes his thighs around the outside of Matty’s legs, nails him down that much harder and holds him still.

“You’re being so weird,” Matty whines.

Brady doesn’t reply, stays firmly on top of him. Matty stops fighting it, relaxing back into the mattress. It’s weirdly comforting to have Brady’s warm weight holding him down. He is heavy, and it makes Matty’s ribs hurt a little to try to pull in a full breath, but otherwise it’s all encompassing heat and the solidity of having Brady’s big body on top of him to keep him from moving. He falls back asleep easily.

It’s hard to tell how much later it is when Brady wakes him again, but he’s still got Matty pinned and Matty makes a plaintive noise in the back of his throat, suddenly too hot. “C’mon, Matty,” Brady is saying. “I’ll bring you breakfast down if you’ll go for a run with me.”

Breakfast sounds good. Going for a run would be a good idea too, but it distinctly doesn’t sound like something Matty feels like doing. Brady’s not shutting up about it though, and Matty’s lungs ache, short of breath from his crushing weight. “Fine,” he croaks. “Just get off of me so I can breathe.”

Brady scrambles up, and Matty flexes his fingers under the pillow where Brady can’t see, getting the feeling back into them after having his wrists held down for so long. He sucks in a couple of deep breaths and kicks the blankets off his body, overheated. “Don’t go back to sleep,” Brady warns, gripping the back of Matty’s thigh in one of his big hands, so high his fingers are almost in Matty’s ass crack. Fucking weirdo.

Matty doesn’t commit one way or the other, but his eyes are still closed and there’s nothing stopping him. He thinks Brady leaves, his hand disappearing, but then it’s back in a rush, smacking down so hard on Matty’s ass that it makes him jerk, yelping loudly, more out of shock than pain. Brady looks proud of himself, standing there grinning now that he’s got Matty pushed up onto his elbows, glaring at him over his shoulder. Matty’s _wide awake_, and Brady knows it, finally leaving him alone.

Matty groans, dropping onto his chest, rolling his hips against the bed. He’s half hard from the heat and the pressure, and getting some friction feels good. He should get up, go piss and rinse the morning death taste out of his mouth, get down on the floor and stretch the tightness out his muscles, but he doesn’t, watching the door for Brady to come back as he slips his hand between the bed and his hips, beneath his sweatpants, grinding against his palm. It’s not going to help anything, not enough time to get off before Brady gets back, but it’s a lick of pleasure up his spine, a pool of warmth in his gut, a full ache in his balls when he has to stop because he’s pretty sure he hears Brady coming down the stairs.

It’s not like Brady hasn’t caught him before, more like he’s got some heat sensing radar specifically for whenever Matty’s trying to rub one out. There’s only a thin wall between their bedrooms, and Matty’s not sure how Brady can’t hear that he’s _busy_, chooses those exact times to come barging in. Matty’s as bad about remembering to lock the door as Brady is about remembering to knock. He’s always all big, watchful eyes and awkward silences after, standing there frozen while Matty tries to figure out if he’s supposed to stop when he’s already halfway there or finish with his little brother lingering in the room. The shower is the only safe place, the dark curtain a semblance of privacy, because Brady barges in on Matty showering too, asks him pointless questions while Matty’s got his dick in his hand, but he hasn’t gone so far as to pull back the curtain. Yet. Matty wouldn’t put it past him. Tkachuks thrive on chaos.

Matty’s got a pillow pulled into his lap, reclining against the headboard and thumbing through his phone when Brady gets back, taking longer than Matty thought he would. Matty scowls, wishes he would have risked it, feeling irritated that he didn’t come when he could have. Brady’s got a whole serving tray loaded up though, and it’s hard to be mad about anything when Matty still hasn’t even had to get out of bed. There’s scrambled eggs and bacon, a bowl of yogurt and fresh fruit, a single slice of unbuttered whole wheat toast, orange juice, and coffee. Jesus, Matty feels like a fucking king. It’s nice, he could get used to it, deserves it every day.

Brady sets the tray down on Matty’s lap, climbs onto the bed next to him, and immediately filches a strip of bacon, shoves the whole thing in his mouth before Matty can even think about grabbing it back. He goes for another but Matty’s more prepared, smacks his hand away.

“There’s still five pieces,” Brady complains.

“They’re mine,” Matty says.

He sulks, watching Matty bite into one of the strips. Their mom makes the best bacon, even though it’s turkey, it’s still perfectly crisp. He moans, taking another bite, rubbing it in a little since Brady’s paying attention. Matty’s laser focused when Brady reaches out again, ready to hit him, but he goes for the coffee, sipping it messily. After setting that down, he starts digging into the fruit with his bare hands, collecting blueberries and sucking the stray yogurt off his fingertips.

“Why didn’t you just bring your own?” Matty asks around a bite of eggs.

“I already ate.”

Matty rolls his eyes, _figures_. He grabs up the spoon off the tray, waits for Brady to reach out again and cracks him hard on the back of the hand with it, laughs at the satisfying noise it makes and Brady’s flinch. “Stop being gross,” Matty says, handing him the spoon. It doesn’t work, of course, Brady still licking the spoon obscenely with every bite, and Matty just has to ignore him.

He finishes up what Brady leaves for him, and then slips over the top of him, down to the floor to twist the kinks out of his back from being stagnant for too long, in the cars, on the flight, in his bed that he needs to get used to again. Brady stays there to watch, still locked in on Matty’s every move in that weird overly clingy way. When Matty leans forward to stretch, Brady pushes his foot against Matty’s spine, forcing him a little too far, and Matty almost snaps at him but then his back pops so loud and satisfying that it startles a laugh out of him and he forgets to be mad.

“Let me get dressed and say hi to mom and dad, and then we can go on a run,” Matty says, trying to roll out his hip flexors, fingers dug into his groin. “You learning anything?” he asks Brady when he doesn’t so much as blink.

“Dad’s not home,” Brady tells him, like that has anything to do with anything. God, he’s slow on the uptake. Matty wonders momentarily if he’s okay before remembering it’s just Brady and his single minded focus. Intensity caught on one thing and one thing only, and apparently that’s Matty.

“Freak.” It comes out more fond than he means it to, rising to his feet and scrubbing his fingers through Brady’s tight curls. “Hairline’s already getting worse, Brade.”

“Fuck off,” Brady grumbles, swatting at him. “At least I don’t look like a mop.”

“Good one,” Matty says sarcastically as he moves to start rifling through his drawers for compression gear, escapes to the bathroom to change so that Brady can’t stare at him the whole time he gets dressed.

Matty takes the stairs up two at a time, Brady behind him with the serving tray. Their mom meets him halfway as soon as she hears them coming up, cupping his face in her hands. “My boy,” she says, like she wasn’t just in Calgary a few days ago watching him lose at playoff hockey. He hugs her, hiding his grin against her shoulder when she snaps, “Dishwasher, Brady,” after he tries to unceremoniously dump the dishes on the counter and walk away. His face is so annoyed and shitty and it’s everything Matty misses during hockey season—his home, his family. “I’m making you a nice dinner,” she says, squeezing around his ribs where he’s gotten too skinny over the long season. “Steak?”

“Steak,” Matty agrees.

She doesn’t take long hammering out the details, not much longer than it takes for Brady to rinse the dishes off and put them in the dishwasher, and Matty goes to start digging through shoes, trying to find a pair of runners. He’s not even sure the ones he picks are his, but he’s pretty sure they’re not Taryn’s at least—she’d kill him—and they fit.

“Those are mine,” Brady says after Matty’s already got them tied. He can fuck right off if he thinks Matty is changing them. “These are yours.” Brady holds up a pair that Matty recognizes and slips them on anyway. It’s—whatever. Their feet are the same size, it doesn’t matter. Matty jogs down the driveway, Brady following a few seconds later.

It’s relaxing to be home, the same familiar streets, the smells, the only city he remembers raising him. Calgary is getting easier to settle into after three years, but it’s not home, maybe never will be when he can come here and fall back into the more normal parts of his life. Not that his life has ever been _normal_, exactly, just normal to him, what he’s used to. Being in a different city was always to be expected, it’s not as if he was likely to get drafted by the Blues. Hell, he spent the majority of his formative years in different cities, that’s how hockey goes. But there was always the certainty of coming home at the end. It feels like maybe that too is coming to an end. He’s getting too old to come home to his parents, but he can’t picture his life without summers like this.

They take the same path they always do, but Matty doesn’t push himself like he usually would to keep pace with Brady’s stride, be faster. He feels off, but he can’t put his finger on it, focusing on matching his breathing to Brady’s, mirroring every step. He keeps going until he can’t anymore, only half as far as they typically go, and stops abruptly, hunched over with his hands on his knees, sucking in air. He feels too full and too empty in turns, hot and then cold. He feels like he’s going to puke and stands up straight, tilting his head back and circling restlessly.

“Cramp?” Brady asks from close by.

Matty can’t talk, determined to swallow past the nausea. It’s like a hangover without the benefit of drinking the night before, stomach unsettled, head cotton thick, everything working a bit too slowly. He’s dehydrated, he realizes with annoyance, and sits down on the curb to get his breath back. He’s not out of shape, for fuck’s sake, but his body is tired. He hasn’t even had a chance to really start abusing it yet and it’s already revolting. He laughs a little manically.

“You okay?”

He didn’t bring water with him. They could call mom and she would come get them in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t want to freak her out because he’s an idiot who forgot to drink water. Normally the guys teases him for being a pregnant lady, always ripping him for how often he has to piss because he chugs water nonstop. But between everything else, he straight up forgot.

When he continues to not answer, Brady presses forward, gripping the back of his neck and tilting his head back, pressing something cool to Matty lips. Water. Brady was smart enough to bring a bottle. Matty sips, small mouthfuls, while Brady holds him close. It doesn’t help the nausea at first, and Matty rests his forehead against Brady’s hip, lets Brady rub at the back of his skull.

“Do you want me to call mom?”

“No,” Matty says hollowly. “I’m just dehydrated.”

“Dumbass.” Brady pulls at his hair, but not enough to pull him away or to make it hurt.

“Gimme that,” Matty demands, reaching out for the bottle, but Brady holds it out of reach, makes Matty tip his head back for it again, pouring water into his open mouth. He loops his fingers loosely around Brady’s wrist, stares up at him with Brady watching him back.

He gets his breathing and heartbeat regulated, sips water until he feels like he’s got some hydration in his system but not so much that he’s worried he’s just going to throw up as soon as he starts moving. He feels drained, like he’s been bag skated hard. He shakes his head at himself, annoyed as he rises to his feet, Brady hovering, and sets a slow pace toward home. It’s embarrassing how Brady just jogs along beside him, not even breathing hard. It’s been a shit week.

Making it home without passing out easily becomes Matty’s only goal for the day. As soon as they’re through the door, Matty kicks his shoes off and heads straight for the fridge for some electrolytes, pressing the chilled bottle to his neck as he moves down the stairs. He gets down on the floor in the makeshift gym in the basement, gingerly working the tension out with a foam roller. He’s going to cramp like crazy from the dehydration if he’s not careful.

He almost feels normal after finishing the bottle and goes to shower, letting the water rinse away the last bit of tightness, the sticky layer of sweat. He knows Brady is in the bathroom without him even having to say anything, can feel him lurking. Pushing the shower curtain back, Brady is there, sitting on the sink counter in his boxers, head leaned back against the mirror. His eyes rake over Matty, he doesn’t even try to hide it, and Matty doesn’t bother trying to cover himself, lets him look. Maybe he’ll get it out of his system, whatever it is. Whatever he’s looking for, Matty is pretty sure he’s not going to find it. It feels like something more, something intangible and unnamable, the way Brady has been covetous of Matty’s every move since he’s been home. There’s something to it that Matty doesn’t understand but he’s not going to stop it.

“Hand me a towel.”

Brady reaches blindly, not looking away from Matty for even a second as he gets a towel out of the cupboard. He stretches across the distance between them to hand it over, and it’s purposeful the way Brady’s fingers brush over his knuckles when he grabs it. It’s not an accident.

Matty scrubs dry, drops the towel to the floor to step out on. He leans against the sink beside Brady to look in the mirror, running his fingers back through his hair a couple of times to keep it off his face. Brady’s thumb presses against his ribs, follows upwards. Matty watches his reflection in the mirror, the path Brady’s taking to follow the rivulet of water that dripped from his hair down his chest. He ends right at Matty’s collarbone, the pad of his thumb pressed into the indent of his clavicle.

“What are you doing?” Matty asks. Not to stop him really, not to be mean. He’s just curious if Brady knows, because Matty can’t figure it out and he’s kind of wondering if Brady knows either. Brady wants to look, wants to touch, and Matty isn’t all that interested in making him quit but he still wants to know why, what he’s going for.

Brady doesn’t answer, haltingly pulling away and slipping off the counter. His boxers are bunched up and bulged out in the front, something about this doing it for him. Maybe it’s the illicitness, maybe he got lonely in Ottawa, maybe he missed Matty that much. Whatever it is, Matty will let him take what he needs, let him figure it out for himself.

He pushes his boxers down, gets into the shower, pulls that curtain closed, cutting them off from each other. Matty looks himself over in the mirror. He hasn’t changed any since the last time Brady saw him, there’s nothing new to see. He’s mostly looked the same the last couple of years, nineteen to twenty to twenty one hasn’t changed that much about his body. He feels the same.

Whatever Brady is looking for, Matty can’t find it on the surface of his own skin. Brady will ask when he’s ready.

—

“Has Brady been weird?” Matty asks Taryn. They’re sitting at the table, their dad off mixing a drink, Brady in the kitchen hounding their mom while she finishes up dinner. It gives Matty a chance to find out if anyone else has noticed.

“Just about you,” Taryn says, not even looking up from her phone. When she does, it’s with a mean little smile that they all have gotten down pat, a family trait. “Seems like he missed you or something. Don’t know why.”

“Thanks, Taryn. Love you too,” he says dryly. She wrinkles her nose, purses her lips, doesn’t smile in the way he knows means she’s fighting it off because secretly she _does_ love him too.

He gives Brady a couple more days to figure it out, letting him follow Matty around wherever he goes, watching him, touching him when he gets the chance without anyone around to notice. He’s blatant but not to the point that their parents seem to notice all that much. Matty needs to recoup, catch up on sleep and some good meals, and it makes it easier for Brady to stick to him like glue.

He’s everywhere. Running together, working out together, training together. He pushes his way into Matty’s space, always standing too close, plastering himself along Matty’s side on the couch to watch a movie, sitting close enough that their knees knock at dinner, over a round of cards, in the car. He touches, sometimes just a little ghost of feeling that Matty barely notices, under his shirt on the ticklish skin of his hip, the back of his neck, the inside of his elbow, and sometimes more, rough, his full hand buried in Matty’s hair as he pulls him off the weight bench, his knee braced on Matty’s chest to hold him down, muscling him around to strip off the hoodie that Matty stole out of his closet. He watches, staring to the point that Matty can feel it as if it’s a hand on him from across the room. He obliges, giving Matty whatever he wants. Matty says _do this_, _go here_, _get me this_, and Brady does it, anticipating Matty sometimes, bringing Matty a bottle of water, little snacks that he knows Matty likes before he even asks.

And he waits. Matty doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but he’s still waiting. Both of them are. Matty’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, to figure out what this is, but Brady’s waiting for something else. Waiting, and obliging, and watching, and touching until Matty can’t take it anymore. It gets on Matty’s nerves, how Brady’s always there, this under the surface, skin deep tension between them that he can’t figure out, so thick he can hardly breathe between it and Brady’s oppressive presence. Something has to give, and it ends up being Matty, folding under the pressure.

He gets up early, when he knows Brady will still be sleeping, gets dressed and tells his mom not to expect him back. He meets the boys for brunch at the clubhouse, tee time already booked for right after. He gets tagged in all the pictures they take, every one of them looking as fratty and douchey as the next, visors and polo shirts and sweaters tied loosely around their necks and open collars with sunglasses tucked into the v. Brady’s going to see them, and he’s going to be pissed. Matty doesn’t think about it, spending way too much time in the rough and the sand for a course that he’s played his whole life, but he makes up strokes with his strong putt game.

They’re all going back to Tommy’s house after, and Matty stops to grab a couple of cases of beer on the way. Someone sets up a table for beer pong, someone else gets the sound system going, another one of the guys gets his girlfriend to wrangle up more girls to come over. It’s easy to sit there and shoot the shit and sip beers and let girls he’s not interested in fall into his lap and not think about Brady. It’s easy to let beer cans pile up around him and pass out on a couch cushion on the floor and wake up hungover and sunburned from the day before.

The first thing he consciously thinks about is the stale taste on his tongue, but the second is Brady. Sighing, he checks his pockets for his phone and his wallet, makes sure he’s got his keys as he does a lap around the house to make sure no one is dead or actively dying before he leaves. There’s a couple of guys already up, but no one manages more than a grunt in response to his salute, and he’ll catch them later anyways. He leans over the sink and slams three glasses of water straight from the tap before he lets himself leave.

Brady’s standing at the kitchen counter when Matty gets home, scowling and stabbing at something on a plate. He doesn’t hear Matty come in at first, but when he does, he dumps the plate into the sink with a loud clatter and brushes past Matty, not only leaving the room, but leaving the house entirely. Matty rolls his eyes.

Brady makes sure to stay out all day, all night, makes sure he’s tagged in all the obnoxious posts. Since they’re both being really mature, Matty comments _cute!_ on the picture that goes up on J’s private insta of Brady and his boys, some guy Matty vaguely recognizes in Brady’s lap, his hand tucked up under his shirt.

Matty doesn’t notice when Brady gets home, hardly notices how he won’t even be in the same room with Matty the whole next day.

“I wondered how long the peace was going to last,” their mom says like it's nothing, but making a point to say it because Brady is making it crazy obvious how pissed he is that Matty decided to do things without him, so over dramatic. “Thought we were going for a new record.”

Matty isn’t sure what _that_ means. They’re brothers, they’re going to fight. And if they’re talking records, nothing will beat the time Matty got so mad at Brady on the drive home from the airport that he punched him in the face and his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding the whole way back to the house. They hadn’t even spent five minutes together. Now that was worth mentioning. Or maybe that whole summer they spent as best friends, living out of each other’s pockets as the family trekked from Boston to Miami to Cancun, long weeks at a time in different cities together.

Brady and Matty fighting isn’t new, but making up and getting along isn’t new either. Matty doesn’t push it, still off kilter from how greedy Brady has been for his attention. Brady staying away doesn’t last for long anyway.

Matty startles awake to Brady slipping under the sheets with him, using his big body to push Matty over in bed. Matty’s mind whirls, stuck in that semi conscious state after being suddenly roused from a dead sleep. “S’now you’re talking to me?” he slurs, letting himself be nudged into whatever position Brady wants him in.

“No, shut up,” Brady says. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mm.” It’s halfway to a laugh, all the effort Matty can really muster. “You’re such a baby.”

He’s mostly back asleep but he thinks he hears Brady whisper, “Missed you, babe,” his hand cupped around Matty’s stomach from behind, something soft brushing below his ear like a kiss.

—

Matty doesn’t have anything to apologize for but he takes Brady out for a round of golf anyway, figures it won’t hurt to smooth things over. He lets Brady drive the cart, his arm slung along the back of the seat, thumb tucked under Matty’s shirt collar. Matty would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the way Brady had been touching him right up until Matty decided to make it stop. He’d be lying if he said he’s not happy that Brady picks right back up where he left off.

It still makes Matty edgy though, makes him restless, stomach heavy when Brady goes out of his way to put his hands on him. Their fingers brush when Brady passes over the wedge Matty needs to chip his way out of the sand trap. Brady’s knee pushes against his as they bump along in the golf cart. They’ve played hole nine a hundred times together, but Brady walks up behind him anyway, leans in close to point over Matty’s shoulder and explain how he’s going to want to work with the wind to avoid ending up in the rough, as if Matty doesn’t already know.

He says, “You’re not following through very well today,” and presses up close to Matty from behind with his hands on Matty’s hips, like Matty needs help with his swing. And he says, “Those pants really make your ass look great.”

“Fuck’s sake, Brady,” Matty curses, slamming his club back into the bag after whiffing on another shot. He’s honestly not sure at this point if Brady is doing it on purpose to throw off his game, or if it’s right back around to how Brady just can’t seem to help himself.

Either way, Brady beats him handily, and he’s self-satisfied and smug about it as he guides Matty up toward the clubhouse with a firm hand on the small of his back. He asks the hostess to sit them in the back where it’s more private and he sprawls himself out on his side of the little corner booth, feet tangled up with Matty’s under the table. Matty tries not to let Brady get to him. It mostly doesn’t work. Brady is just being so overt, and it’s too much to handle. He reaches across the table, fingers resting on the back of Matty’s hand as he talks.

“You need to stop,” Matty says flatly, pulling his hands off the table when he spots the waitress heading their way.

Brady smiles, unbothered. He doesn’t even move his hand back, leaves it there while he orders for the both of them. Matty wants to throttle him—partly because of how much he likes Brady treating him like this, partly because of how much he doesn’t want to admit that he likes it.

It hits Matty on the drive home that the day out together felt like a date and he has to shove Brady’s hand away from where it’s been resting on his thigh. He crams the thought far back into the dark recesses of his mind where he doesn’t have to look at it.

The guilt only settles in further when their mom finds Matty later and says, “Thanks for doing that, it’s nice when you boys are getting along.”

Matty escapes to his room and sits down on the edge of his bed to think without trying to poke at it too hard. He thinks about Brady and how he’s been acting since Matty’s been home. He thinks about himself and how he’s been responding to it. Brady doesn’t give him much time, walking in with no warning and catching Matty in a position just as precarious and vulnerable as if his dick were in his hand. He’s as pushy and demanding as Matty has come to expect him to be, kneeing his way between Matty’s thighs to stand as close as he possibly can without actually being on top of him.

“What is with you?” Matty asks, leaning back to look up at Brady.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.”

Matty’s throat clicks on a dry swallow. “What,” he croaks, blinking unseeingly at Brady in stunned horror.

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” Brady says. He really couldn’t be any clearer, except it still doesn’t make any sense.

“That’s—” _Not possible_. It’s a lot of things, but most of all it’s not possible. Matty is his older brother, which is the most important part. The only part. Matty’s not a girl, and even if he was, they couldn’t do that. It’s _not right_. It’s _fucked up_. It’s _not okay._ It’s _wrong_. “What,” Matty breathes again, reeling.

“I know,” Brady says. “But I want it.”

Brady has always been uncouth. It comes out in fits and bursts around other people, but with Matty, he’s always as brash and loud and uncaring as he wants to be. When Brady was fifteen, Matty caught him snooping through his laptop, and Brady had said, “You look at a lot of gay porn,” and Matty thought he was going to die of shame right there, but Brady didn’t even blink at Matty’s red face and crushing embarrassment and had brazenly asked without missing a beat how the hell it even worked with two guys. At sixteen, Brady had said, “You have to teach me how to kiss,” and Matty let Brady practice on him until his mouth was numb and more Brady’s spit than his own.

“Matty,” Brady whispers, pushing closer, his hands on Matty’s thighs, sliding up the front of his shorts as he leans in. “Don’t say no.”

“I’m not,” Matty breathes, a barely there admission, but grabs Brady’s wrists to stop him. It’s too much to take in, all happening at once. “Just wait.”

Brady waits. His fingers are inched right up under the ends of his shorts, tips curled down to hold onto Matty’s thighs. Matty keeps a grip on his wrists to stop him from moving and tilts his head back to stare up at the ceiling, avoiding the look on Brady’s face. He can’t _think_ with Brady looking at him like that.

When it comes down to things that Matty should say no to, where Brady is concerned, he doesn’t have a very good track record. In the past, he could chalk it up to little brother advantages, Brady knowing how to get his way, especially where Matty’s involved. It wasn’t normal, but what about their life was? This was a whole lot more, it would be different. They’re both supposed to be adults, supposed to be making good, healthy, reasonable decisions. But Matty has never been able to say no to Brady when it’s something that Brady really wanted. Not when it counted.

And if he thinks about it—really thinks about it—it feels inevitable. Matty thinks about how Brady never brings a girlfriend home, always times his breakups to when Matty’s going to be around. It seems telling now that he knows. It’s never been something he let himself want, let himself think about, linger on, even consider, but it’s there, caught in the tension between them. Always has been there. From the first time, Brady asking, “How many boys have you kissed?” right up against his lips.

Matty telling him, “None of your business,” pulling their mouths back together.

And Brady saying, “Bet I’m the best.” He was. Matty didn’t tell him that then, and he’s not going to tell him now, but even when he was new, he was good at it. Kissed like it mattered, a little greedy, but he let Matty take too. It’s not a memory Matty lets himself revisit, unless he’s really desperate, but he bets Brady is still like that now, a little selfish but giving, that he remembers exactly how to kiss Matty from those years ago.

“We have to be careful,” Matty says.

Brady sighs loudly, rushes forward into Matty’s space, and Matty blocks him off, stopping him. It’s the exact opposite of what he just said. The bedroom door is wide open, and even if it wasn’t, it’s barely late afternoon and everyone is home. His whole body flushes hot at the idea of anyone finding them like they are now, and they haven’t even done anything incriminating yet. It probably just looks from the outside like Brady is being a bully and Matty is letting him, which wouldn’t be that far from the truth or anything out of the ordinary anyway.

“Nobody’s down here.”

“Brady, I’m serious,” Matty says firmly, resolute, pushing Brady away.

“You didn’t say no.”

“I’m not saying no,” Matty agrees.

Brady is cocky about it, smirking like he did after winning the round of golf. He got his way, always does. Matty should make him work harder for it, shouldn’t be so goddamn easy when Brady asks for something that he knows is fucked up and Matty just melts for him, gives in. Matty knows he should be saying no, there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s risking everything that both of them care about, including each other, by going for it and wanting Brady back, but Brady’s thumbs are circling softly on the inside of his thighs and he wants to lay back and let Brady take and take and take everything from him.

“You wanna be my girlfriend?” Brady asks, pushing his hands a little further under Matty’s shorts because Matty lets him. He says it quietly, but Matty guesses that Brady already knows the answer. So goddamn sure of himself.

Matty bites his lips against the urge to say yes and eyes the open door. Brady was probably right when he said no one’s downstairs with them. Nobody really bothers them in the basement. Taryn comes down to use the gym sometimes, but she’s already had practice today, and their mom comes down to do laundry, but she usually does that in the morning. They mostly get it to themselves, and if anyone needs them for anything, it usually comes via text, but it still isn’t any good reason to be taking big, stupid risks either.

Matty leans up a little bit closer to Brady and says, “What do you think?”

Brady stares at his mouth and his grip on Matty’s thighs shifts, sliding around to the outside and tightening, like he wants to pull Matty to him. Matty works his way up Brady’s arms, squeezing at his biceps, over his shoulders, so much more to him than there was the first and last time he let himself touch Brady like this. He sets his hands on either side of Brady’s neck, only the slightest bit of pressure urging Brady forward and he reacts instantly, making a small sound in his throat as he rushes forward, mouth pressing to Matty’s.

Matty rocks with it, lets himself remember the feel of Brady’s hair between his fingers, learns the new thickness of his muscles under his hands. Brady’s got one of his palms secured against the small of Matty’s back, strong, the other cupping his jaw to keep Matty’s mouth on his for as long as he wants. He’s been bent over Matty like this for a while, awkward, a little strained, but Matty bets Brady could still lift him up if he really wanted to, could throw him around.

Brady bites into the kiss, greedy—always so greedy—and Matty opens to him, lets Brady get his tongue into his mouth like he wants. It’s electric, even more than he remembers it being, and Brady is bigger than him now. Only a little, an inch and a couple pounds, but it’s enough.

Matty pushes him away, doesn’t let it go on too long. He blinks past the hazy feeling, past the thought of how badly he wants to get Brady on top of him and find out how strong he really has gotten, and focuses on trying to get his brain to work in any reasonable capacity.

“Go away,” Matty says thickly. “Go be… anywhere else.” It’s too goddamn risky to do anything they’ve already done, and they definitely shouldn’t try to push their luck.

“Can I come back later?”

Matty can’t say no to him. He doesn’t know when Brady will make the move, but the anticipation ramps up the tension even higher than it already is. It’s easier than he expects it to be to act normal. Brady has always been pretty good at behaving when he has to, and Matty hasn’t ever needed attention the way Brady does. They eat dinner with the family, sit down to watch a movie after helping their mom clean up. Brady doesn’t try anything weird, even when they go to bed. Brady goes to his own room without saying anything and Matty lays in his bed with that thin wall between them and waits. He’s antsy, but he wears himself out eventually and falls asleep without Brady showing up.

It doesn’t feel like that much later when he’s awakened, Brady pushing in behind him under the covers. It’s late and dark and quiet, and Brady is hot along his back, hips pressing forward urgently, letting Matty feel the hard line of his cock against his ass. Matty is sleep slow, trying to catch up, but not sure if he’s really awake at all. He curls back against Brady, reaching for him. Brady breathes out roughly, mouth open on the side of Matty’s neck.

“Off,” Matty says, means to say, reaching behind him to grasp at Brady’s boxers.

Brady takes them off, the tip of dick leaving a wet kiss on the skin of his back. Matty shoves down his underwear lazily, gets them to his knees, and spits into his hand, reaches between his legs for Brady’s cock to slick it up. He licks his fingers again, gets them sloppy wet before swiping them between his thighs. He catches Brady’s cock between them, squeezes around him. Brady holds onto his hip, rocks forward into him, cock sliding between Matty’s thighs.

Matty feels lit up, body buzzing, a tingling, unexpected pleasure. Matty’s been fucked plenty before, but not like this. Brady’s not really inside of him, but it feels like he could be, the head of his cock nudging behind his balls, held tight in the clutch of Matty’s thick thighs. Brady gets his arm under Matty, holding around his chest, fingertips catching on his nipple. The hand on his hip tightens, thumb dug into the meat of Matty’s ass to spread him open a little. He’s never thought about being a girl before, always been a man even with another guy pressing inside of him, but he thinks about what it must be like with Brady’s hands on him. How it must feel to have a pussy, to get wet and open up around a cock. What it must feel like to have thick, rough fingers against a clit, perky tits caught in huge hands.

“Fuck,” he whines, hips knocking back against Brady, catching the head of his dick between his fingers. Brady pinches his nipple, teeth sharp on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Brady pushes him over, holds him down with that hand on his hip, rocks into the clasp of Matty’s thighs hard enough that it gives Matty the friction he needs against the hand trapped under his body. “Knew you’d be like this,” Brady whispers. “A hot fuck.”

Matty turns his face into the pillow, trying to quiet his gasps and choked off moans every time Brady slaps into him from behind. It’s so much better than it should be, than it has any right to be, when Brady isn’t even _inside _of him. He squeezes Matty’s nipple, twisting sharply, and Matty tenses, thighs clenching up around him, and bites his lip to hold in the sound clawing its way up his throat. Brady pulls them back onto their sides, rolling his hips so slowly, a long, teasing drag. Matty reaches up to tangle his fingers in Brady’s hair, pulling, and Brady’s open mouth presses to his ear.

“I’m gonna come,” Brady breathes, lips brushing against him. He goes even slower, fingertips digging bruises into Matty’s hip to keep him still. It’s excruciating how long Brady makes it last, barely moving, languid thrusts that take his breath away, gasping into Matty’s ear. He’s rigid behind Matty, every muscle tense as he drags it out, delaying until he can’t anymore, a hot rush, wet between Matty’s thighs.

It’s so slick, so wet, that he has to reach down and touch, fingers gliding easily between his thighs, no resistance. It’s different, not what he’s used to, and adds a whole other layer to what he’s found so excruciatingly hot about this. He’s never let anyone fuck him bare before, never let anyone come inside of him and felt it leak out. He wonders if this is what it’s like, or if it’s this way for girls, slippery between their thighs, dripping with come.

Brady rolls onto his back, brings Matty with him, half draped over him. He puts both of his hands between Matty’s legs, their fingers all tangled together, sliding through the mess there. He brings one hand up, slick fingers circling over Matty’s nipples. Matty wants to make him lick it off, wants to climb up onto his face and make him lick up his come from Matty’s thighs, hold him down by his hair and ride against his mouth until it makes Matty come.

Fuck, he feels sick, tight in the stomach from wanting so much. He kicks his underwear down off his legs, spreading them restlessly, thrown wide. Brady knocks Matty’s hand out of the way, both of his hands back between Matty’s thighs. Two of his come-wet fingers push deep, teasing at his hole, the other hand stays higher, feather light touches across his sticky thighs, over his throbbing taint. Matty still has his hand curled around his cock, has the whole time, but it hasn’t felt urgent. He arches up into his fist just as Brady presses a finger into him.

Matty’s going to come so hard, can feel it building. He knows he’s not going to be quiet, has to bring his fingers up to his mouth. They’re tacky from Brady’s come and he sucks it off.

“Yeah, babe, come on,” Brady says, pushing a second finger to Matty’s hole. The angle they’re at, he can’t get them into Matty deep, but it’s so much, the blunt stretch around Brady’s top knuckles, Matty grasping at him, trying to pull him in, and Brady’s other hand pressing at him from the outside, enough to spark him over the edge. He shoots all the way up his chest, thighs closing around Brady’s hands to keep him there, riding down on Brady’s fingers in him, clenching around them. “Jesus Christ,” Brady groans, feeling it.

Matty knocks his head back against Brady’s shoulder, breathing hard, dragging his fingers out from between his teeth. He’s a mess, practically covered in cooling come from his chin down to his knees. He shivers as Brady eases his fingers out, squeezes at Matty’s thighs in solidarity. Matty’s limp, fucked out and dazed, so tired he doesn’t even care what he’s going to wake up feeling like in the morning. Brady muscles him over, laying Matty face down on the cool sheets.

“You can’t get caught in here,” he mumbles when Brady doesn’t get up to leave.

“I locked the door,” Brady tells him.

Matty reaches back, gets a hand around Brady’s knee and hitches it over his own legs, weighing him down. Brady moves in closer and stays.

—

They don’t talk about how it’s going to work, what it means and how it could fuck up everything, they just do it. Brady is careful, more than Matty expects him to be, but still not careful enough sometimes. He’ll find Matty alone in a room and walk up behind him, too close, and set his teeth to Matty’s shoulder, his hand sliding up the inside of Matty’s thigh, feeling up his ass. Someone always inevitably walks in, and Brady disappears without a trace while Matty has to will away a boner and fight off the tight, uncomfortable feeling in his gut whenever he thinks about how wrong it is, how fucked up that he just lets his brother do whatever he wants, _wants_ him to do whatever he wants.

Matty doesn’t overthink it when the moment strikes. One minute he’s jogging on the treadmill and the next he’s got his phone out, googling ‘lingerie for men.’ He doesn’t know if it’s more surprising that he didn’t realize that was a thing before or that it’s as much of a thing as it is, dozens of search results. He clicks on the first link and starts scrolling. There are a lot of styles, a lot of options, it’s overwhelming. He starts small, simple. One thing he knows is that Brady is very into his ass, and it plays into the items he chooses. He picks the pairs he thinks he’ll be most comfortable in, the ones that he thinks will make his ass look the best, and gets out a card for an account his parents don’t have access to, will never find the charge for on the statement.

He has them shipped to the house. In Brady’s name. Taryn brings the box in when it comes. It’s discreet on the outside, no way of knowing what’s in it, but she throws it at Brady after getting home from practice, when they’re all sitting down around the table for dinner. There’s no way for Matty to warn Brady first, and part of him doesn’t want to anyway, sadistically excited that Brady is about to open the box right there in front of everyone.

It’s obvious from the look on his face that he’s perplexed by what could be in the box, doesn’t remember ordering anything—because he didn’t, but they get PR packages sometimes, and it could be that. He uses his dinner knife to slice the tape open. Matty’s heart is in his throat, watching closely as Brady flips the cardboard open in his lap. His confusion turns to shock in a blink, and he quickly looks around to make sure no one else has seen what’s in the box and catches Matty’s eye. Matty licks his lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and Brady stands abruptly.

“I’m going to take this downstairs,” he says.

“Oh, what did you get, honey?” their mom asks.

Matty watches the line of his shoulders go tight as he secures the flaps over the top of the box to hide the contents within. “Just some protein powder,” he mumbles, disappearing around the corner.

Brady isn’t subtle through dinner, watching Matty, movements jerky with everything he does, wound up. It’s the most obvious he’s been since they started, and Matty knows he shouldn’t but he loves it. Making Brady lose control, making him want it this much, so much that he can hardly get through dinner without giving them away, it’s a thrill, and Matty takes his time, making Brady wait.

He’s impatient, pushy, the second they escape down to the basement, shouldering his way into Matty’s room with the box already in his hands. He shoves it at Matty. “Put them on.”

“No,” Matty says, laughing as he kicks the box carelessly and drops down onto his bed.

Brady looks surprised, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. To be fair, Matty doesn’t tell him no often enough for him to know how to react. It’s a power trip to watch him have to piece through how to go on from here, what to do. “You bought them for me,” he tries. “You bought them to wear for me.”

“Yes,” Matty confirms. He leans back onto his palms, letting his legs fall wide apart as Brady looks him over.

“Then put them on for me. I want to see.” His voice is rough, demanding, as he swoops in close, hands on either side of Matty’s thighs.

“Do something nice for me, and I’ll do something nice for you.” Brady groans and grips Matty’s legs, yanking him down toward the edge of the bed. As much as Matty would like to see where he’s going with it, he stops him with a hand on his chest. “Not like that.”

“Matty, please,” Brady whines. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

As Matty watches him, Brady gets down on his knees in front of him. Matty bites his lip, trying to strengthen his resolve. It would be really nice to watch him beg, to make him want it so bad that he actually would do anything. “You said you wanted me to be your girlfriend,” Matty says.

“Yeah. Yes,” Brady rushes out.

“You haven’t even taken me out.” He shifts his leg under Brady’s hand, then gently pushes Brady’s hands off of him completely, no longer letting him touch. It seems to click, Brady clenching his hands into the blankets where they now rest.

“Tomorrow night, at eight. Be ready.” He rests his head forward on Matty’s knee, and Matty allows it for a second, then shoves him away, smirking at Brady’s glare.

The house is about to be empty, just the two of them. Their mom and Taryn are taking a short girls’ trip, visiting a campus that is trying to recruit Taryn or something, and their dad is traveling with the Blues to their away game, deep in their playoff run. It’s going to be a lot. A lot of time and space and freedom. Matty’s giving Brady a day to change his mind, and giving himself the same. The house being empty is going to be too much opportunity. He already knows neither of them is going to back out but it’s time away from each other, because Matty is pretty sure they’re not going to be spending any time apart over the next couple of days. Brady wants to fuck him, and Matty isn’t going to say no.

They see everyone off as they usually would, their mom dramatically implores that they not destroy anything like she always does, and their dad doesn’t even bother with any of that, just gives them a quick side hug on his way out the door. The house goes eerily silent as soon as they’re gone, and Matty stands at the window to watch the cars leave, the gate locking shut behind them. When he turns around, Brady is lurking, watching him.

Matty’s sticking to the plan. “Training, lunch, whatever, and then the date.”

“And then the date,” Brady agrees.

At least Brady looks confident, because suddenly, Matty doesn’t really feel it. The whole plan in his head feels unnecessary, pointless. It feels desperate, like Matty couldn’t get a date on his own and had to rope Brady into it.

“Where are we going?” Matty asks, nervous energy getting the best of him. Brady’s in the middle of a set, and Matty shouldn’t interrupt, but he has to know. Brady doesn’t answer right away, focused in. He’s being so good, Matty can tell he’s trying hard not to be overbearing. Matty’s only caught him looking a couple of times, and it’s nice of him, considering the house is empty. He could do whatever he wants, it wouldn’t take much convincing at all to get Matty to give it up, but he doesn’t push.

Brady finishes his reps, takes a second to catch his breath and walks around the room, rolling out his shoulders. Matty’s already done, cooling down, and watches him as he passes. “It’s a surprise,” Brady says. He picks up the weighted med ball again, takes his stance, and chucks it extra hard at the rubber matted floor. He’s pushing himself, Matty realizes, his muscles rippling, sweat soaking through his shirt. Releasing tension.

Matty wants to go over and put his hands on Brady’s broad shoulders, feel the muscles shift, run his palms over the hot skin, down his thick, flexing biceps. He wants Brady to push him against the wall, box him in with his size, sweat and heat trapped between them. He keeps pedaling, unmoving on the stationary bike. “I have to know what we’re doing. I need to know what to wear.”

Brady falters, the ball thudding weakly to the floor. He’s looking at him when Matty glances up, catching his eye. “You know what to wear,” Brady tells him roughly.

“Fuck’s sake,” Matty mutters, flushing. “I need to know what to wear besides that.” He hasn’t even taken the panties out of the box yet, hasn’t touched them or looked at them in person, too embarrassed and turned on by the idea of slipping them on, wearing them for Brady. It’s a lot to think about.

“I thought we could order in for dinner, and then go out to a movie. It’ll be dark so we can… it’ll be real.”

_It’ll be real_. A real date. Not just messing around and pretending or whatever they’re doing, but for real going out, being together in public, an actual date. For at least a night, he gets to be Brady’s girlfriend in more than just the privacy of the bedroom. They’ll have to be careful, but Matty thinks he can make it good for them. He’s going to try anyway.

Brady tells him he’s ordering dinner around seven, doesn’t ask what Matty wants, puts the call in for both of them. Matty goes to his room to get ready, remembering to lock the door behind him. With a steadying breath, he opens the box and unpacks it, laying the three pairs of panties out on his bed to choose from. Black, red, and white. The black are sexy, sheer, and the red are more boxy and basic, but the white make Matty’s stomach clench tight just looking at them. The white pair look almost virginal, and when Matty rubs the fabric between his fingers, the lace is softer than he expects.

He strips and sits down on his bed, carefully slipping the underwear onto each leg. He stands to pull them all the way up, heart hammering in his throat. They’re designed for men, extra room in the front for his junk, but it’s still a squeeze, a shiver running down his spine at the feeling of the material against his cock. The fit feels right, if a bit snug, edges digging into his ass as he runs his fingers along the seams to line everything up straight. He looks down at himself and inhales sharply in surprise, the clean white fabric a crisp contrast against his skin, the lacy pattern feminine despite his body hair and the growing bulge beneath.

“Fuck,” he breathes, rubbing his palms briskly at his thighs, staring up at the ceiling. He tries to think about anything other than Brady seeing him like this, how he’s going to react.

He goes into his closet, searching for an outfit to wear, and comes up with an old pair of jeans, skin tight when he pulls them on. He can barely breathe, feels like he’s going to burst right out of them, cutting into his hips and his thighs, denim stretched to its limit. He’s pretty sure this is how girls do it, so tight they can hardly move, and it’s equal parts painful and exhausting, hot and worth it to get a rise out of a guy, so easy. He finds a deep cut white v-neck he’s never worn before, knowing it would get him chirped to hell and back by the boys, but it’s just the look he’s going for with Brady.

He can hear Brady in the shower and sneaks into his bedroom, grabbing one of his hoodies from his closet, and makes his escape upstairs. He hides in Taryn’s bathroom, locks the door in case Brady goes so far as to search for him.

Mashing down the unease of going through his sister’s things, he starts the hunt for what he’s looking for. He comes up with a tube of mascara, a bright red lipstick, and some eyeliner. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing, but Monny’s girlfriend likes to put makeup tutorial videos up on the big screen when everyone is hanging out and getting plastered together, and Matty sometimes gets weirdly into it. It’s just unbelievable what some people can do with a little makeup.

He’s got no false hope for his own skills, but he’s giving it a shot anyway. He starts with the eyes, pretty sure that’s going to be the most difficult part. Sure enough, as soon as he tries to draw a line on his lid, he fucks up, and has to find the makeup wipes he saw earlier, carefully rubbing the smudge of black away. He gets one eye done. It’s not perfect, uneven and messy from his hesitant hand, but it looks mostly okay. Brady won’t notice. He starts on the other eye, somehow already too sure of himself, and fucks it up three times before he finally gets something close to matching on both eyes.

It’s just a simple black line, but his eyes are already red and watery from the effort. “What the fuck,” he whispers to his reflection. Women do this shit every day like it’s nothing. Matty’s twenty minutes in and has nothing much to show for it, some messy liner and bloodshot eyes.

He’s terrified when he uncaps the mascara and takes the wand out. He tries to angle his head, angle the wand, and every time he almost pokes himself in the eye or gets mascara somewhere it’s not supposed to be. Frustrated, he looks up a video and watches it twice, figuring out it helps to blink his lashes onto the wand rather than forcing it at his eye with an unsteady hand. He does a second coat when the first one looks uneven and then stares at himself critically. It’s not the cleanest, not perfect or skilled by any means, but his eyes look different just with the small amount of black around them, bluer somehow, lashes longer and thicker.

There are a bunch of eyeshadow palettes leaned up against one another on the counter but after just glancing inside one, he doesn’t even bother. It’s the part that fascinates him the most in the videos, makes the least sense to him. How the artist knows what colors work together, which brush to use, how to blend the shadows out just right, Matty will never understand.

He cleans up the little flecks of black around his eyes from blinking too hard when the mascara was wet and rolls up the lipstick. It doesn’t even look used and Matty wonders if that’s bad, if Taryn somehow knew it wasn’t the right shade or something. It’s vibrant, bold red. He touches it to his lower lip and drags it across, then rubs his lips together, testing. It’s streaky, patchy, not enough on, and he has to go back in, draw it mindfully around his lips.

Once he’s finished, he plants his hands onto the counter top and looks at himself in the mirror, trying to objectively take it all in. He feels stupid, overwhelmingly so, but it doesn’t look bad. It doesn’t feel wrong or like he’s made a mistake, he’s just not sure if Brady will like it. It’s for Brady, even though he never asked for it, never said he wanted it. Brady said he wanted Matty to be his girlfriend, and Matty is doing everything he can to make it real. More than anything, Matty is worried that he’ll laugh at him, laugh at how hard Matty is trying.

The one consolation is that Matty can still kick the shit out of him if he has to. The makeup will come off easily and he can wail on Brady hard enough to make him fucking cry if he so much as tries to act like a dick about Matty going this far to try and please him. It almost puts his mind at ease, both the fact that he can beat Brady up if he has to, and the idea that Brady might really like it.

His hair is a mess, and there’s not much Matty can do about it. His cut is fresh, the sides shaved clean, but the top is getting long, letting it grow out. He runs his hands through his curls, but otherwise leaves it alone. Taryn has a bottle of moisturizer on the counter, and Matty dabs some on. It’s tinted and evens everything out, blends it together so he doesn’t look so patchy, smoothing over where he’s chafed from shaving, dry around his mouth from chewing on his lips.

He lingers upstairs for a few more minutes, checking his phone. Brady has sent a couple texts to ask where he is. He sends one back to say he’s coming down, warning Brady not to laugh. He forces himself to start down the stairs and pauses a couple steps from the bottom.

“Brady?” he calls uneasily. God, he’s so fucking nervous. All he wants is for Brady to be pleased, to like what he sees.

“What the hell are you doing?” Brady asks, sounding exasperated, from not too far off.

“Just wait,” Matty says, frantic. “I’ll come down, just stay there. You can’t laugh.”

“Matty.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not going to—” Brady’s words die on his tongue as Matty finally comes down the stairs and around the corner. His mouth hangs open dumbly, no sound coming out. It feels like one of those rom-com moments when the guy’s hot date shows up and blows him away. Matty blushes so hard he can feel the heat up to the roots of his hair, sharp embarrassment. He knows he doesn’t look _that_ good, but Brady’s still stuck staring. He doesn’t make a sound until he croaks, “Oh, fuck.” He licks his lips and swallows audibly, says a little more clearly, “Holy shit.” He hooks his hand into the pocket of the hoodie Matty has on, pulls him forward. “This is mine, babe. Looks good on you though.”

“Do you like it?” Matty’s voice comes out weak, and he’s annoyed at himself for caring so much. He just wants to look pretty for Brady, wants to be everything Brady wants.

Brady frames Matty’s face in his hands, tilts his head toward the light, really looks him over. It’s so much more intense to have him looking this closely. His thumb sweeps gently against the corner of Matty’s mouth, Matty rubs his lips together nervously, fighting the urge to bite at them. “Jesus, Matty. Yes. You look so good.”

Matty exhales between them, pushing into Brady’s hold on him in relief. Brady leans in, trying to kiss him, and Matty says, “No, don’t, you’ll ruin it.”

“Dinner is almost here, the lipstick is going to get ruined when you eat anyway.”

Matty has never dated girls, never paid attention to their makeup or what happens to it. He didn’t think about it getting messed up before they even left the house. He doesn’t stop Brady when he leans in again, pushing up into it when Brady kisses him. Brady makes a rough sound, their mouths sliding together. He pushes Matty back against the wall behind him, pins him there, hands moving from Matty’s face down to his chest, feeling him up like he has tits. Matty’s lips part, Brady’s tongue filling his mouth, licking over his teeth. His hands dip lower, under Matty’s shirt, and he rucks it up, cupping Matty's chest like he really has something there, and Matty gets one of Brady’s legs between his own, rocking against it. Moving even lower, Brady grabs Matty’s ass, pulling Matty to him harder, then stills suddenly, all except his hands on Matty’s ass, fingers working their way under the tight waistband of his jeans and feeling beneath.

“Fuck,” he breathes harshly, finding the soft lace with the tips of his fingers. Matty bites his lip.

The loud buzzer for the gate sounds.

Brady pulls away, blinking dazedly. His mouth is smeared red with lipstick. Matty wipes at it, trying to clean him up while Brady leans over him. “Think we should just stay in,” Brady says, voice low.

“No, absolutely not,” Matty argues. Not after the time and effort he put in, not to mention this could be one of the only chances they get. He’s getting his date. The buzzer goes again, longer this time. “You better get that.”

Brady’s eyes catch on something above Matty’s head, and he laughs darkly, kissing Matty gently once more before pulling away, shaking his head as he goes. Matty looks up and realizes they’ve been making out against a wall lined with pictures of them growing up, from childhood to their respective drafts, pictures of their family. It’s fucked up, but it’s comforting too, all that history.

Brady comes back in carrying enough sushi to feed a small village. “It’s the expensive place you like,” he says proudly.

It’s good, it always is, but it’s better because Brady ordered it, paid for it, set it all up, and keeps his arm stretched across the back of Matty’s chair the whole time they spend eating. It’s easy, familiar. Brady’s always been beside him, they’ve known each other their whole lives, they know each other’s secrets, they know each other better than anyone else. There’s so little they don’t know about each other yet, and Matty thinks they’re about to get there quickly. He didn’t grow up thinking he’d be dating his brother one day, even after Brady kissed him the first time, it’s not a thought that crossed his mind, but it doesn’t make it feel any less right to be there now. It doesn’t make it feel any less wrong either.

Matty brushes his teeth, puts on a fresh coat of lipstick before they leave. Brady drives.

The movie theater isn’t big, it isn’t fancy. The parking lot isn’t well lit and neither is the lobby when they walk in. Matty keeps his hood up, his head bent down over his phone pretending to look busy while Brady guides him inside, buys their tickets, and leads the way to their seats. Matty likes it too much, how seedy it feels, dangerous, like they could be caught any minute. He likes Brady’s hand on his waist, likes the way he takes charge and keeps Matty close to his side.

They sit in the back. They’re late, the previews are already going, theater dark when they choose a place to sit. There’s only a few other people, all sitting in front of them. Matty takes his hoodie off, the heaters kicked on high even with summer well on its way, and Brady’s hand immediately slides through his hair, fluffing through his curls where they were flattened down. It’s dark but Matty can see his teeth, his fond smile. It feels like they aren’t even going to make it through this movie, maybe should have just stayed holed up in the house together after all.

Brady gets settled in, his arm around Matty’s shoulders. The movie doesn’t start out great, not really an attention grabber when Brady’s fingers are toying with the collar of Matty’s shirt, making him shiver when they brush against the side of his neck, his collarbone. Something blows up on screen, and Matty frowns, bored, leaning closer to Brady. He sets his hand on Brady’s thigh, glancing at him, but it goes unnoticed. Brady is either into the movie or is pretending to be to drive Matty crazy.

Either way, he knocks his head back against Brady’s shoulder, slides his hand further up Brady’s thigh. “Brady,” he whispers.

“Shh. Watch the movie,” Brady tells him, squeezing lightly at his shoulder.

Annoyed, Matty pushes further into his space, trying to grab Brady’s attention the way Brady usually fights for his. “Brady. You should kiss me.”

Brady looks at him, caught out, and he can’t seem to deny Matty that when he asks, gripping the back of Matty’s neck to pull him in. It’s a movie theater date, Matty wouldn’t have left without getting the chance to make out. Maybe they’re too old for it, should have outgrown that adolescent desire, maybe Matty never should have wanted it with his brother in the first place, but it’s still too good to let pass by. The arm rest digs into Matty’s side, stopping him from getting as close as he wants to, but Brady’s hands are on him, coaxing a soft sound from him as he puts one into the open front of Matty shirt, calloused fingers finding his nipple.

“I see why you took my hoodie. This shirt is pretty slutty, babe,” Brady says, lips moving against the sensitive skin right below Matty’s ear. He bites gently, leaves sucking kisses down the length of his neck as he catches Matty’s nipple between his fingers.

Matty gasps, and the theater lights up briefly, a flash from the screen that lets Matty catch a glimpse of Brady bowed over him, hand down his shirt. He clutches at his hair. “Can we go? Brady, please, let’s go home.” He sounds desperate even at a whisper. They can’t get away with doing much here, even if it’s a quiet theater. The consequences of getting caught would be fucking devastating. Besides, Matty wants Brady on top of him, inside of him. He pulls Brady’s hair hard, yanking him away. “Take me home.”

Brady fights against his hold, letting Matty pull his hair in order to get at his mouth, kissing him messily. Greedy. It makes Matty want him more.

Brady stands abruptly, pulling Matty up with him, barely giving him a second to collect his hoodie before he’s rushing him down the stairs. The little hallway to leave is lit and Matty stops to put the hoodie on, but doesn’t get very far with Brady’s hands in the way, pushing him to the wall to kiss him again.

Matty melts to him, so easy for the way Brady clutches at his hips, trying to get him closer. Brady is desperate like he’s scared he’s not going to get another chance to do this, as though Matty isn’t always going to give him whatever he wants, every time.

Someone clears their throat and Matty swears, turning his back to where the sound came from. Brady stands close, blocking him from view as he pulls his hood up. Head down, he can’t see much, and Brady guides him out with an arm around his waist. Matty chances a glance at the person who caught them and she’s politely not looking at either of them, even when Brady apologizes quietly on their way past. Brady takes him out the side door, avoiding the lobby.

The drive home feels longer than it should, and Matty’s jeans are so goddamn tight that they hurt with how hard he is. Brady won’t let him stop on the way into the house, keeps Matty moving with rough hands on his hips right up until they get to his room.

He shoves Matty down on the bed, crawls over top of him. “Take this off,” he says, grabbing the bottom of Matty’s shirts and pulling them up, bringing Matty up with them to get the clothes over his head. He pins him down after, holds him there to look at him. Matty squirms, breaths hitching as Brady leans in, biting at his chest, leaving big, vicious red marks on him in the shape of his mouth.

Matty gets his hands free from Brady, puts them into his hair to shove his head lower. “Take my pants off right now.”

Brady bites him so hard it makes Matty’s whole body tense up, sharp, hot pain that leaves him gasping. “Demanding,” Brady says but he pops the button on Matty’s jeans anyway, sitting up to try pulling them down. They don’t go anywhere fast. “Could these be any tighter?” he asks. He goes down to the floor to start working them off from the bottom. Matty laughs, using his thumbs to push down at the hips. Once they’re finally off, and Brady sees him in just the panties, he goes still, staring from the floor at Matty’s feet. “Fuck.” Matty’s cock is so hard it’s lifting the waistband of the panties, bowing them up away from his body, distorting the image, but Brady doesn’t seem to care, hands sliding up Matty’s thighs to spread them wider. “Fuck, look at you.”

Matty fists the sheets up in his hands, fights to stay still to let Brady look at him. Brady follows the curve of the band around Matty’s legs, pressure so light against the sensitive skin of Matty’s inner thighs that it makes him shake, muscles trembling. The fabric catches against his hands as he rubs over it, dragging over Matty’s cock, making him twitch. Brady thumbs down the seam of his ass through the panties, and then shoves him over, getting him onto his stomach, ass up. He grabs Matty’s cheeks by the handful, fingers digging in. Matty rocks against the bed as Brady treats him roughly, grinding harder the more Brady squeezes his ass until Brady’s got him by the hips, pulling him up to his knees.

He gets up behind him, jerks Matty back against the bulge in his jeans, letting Matty feel how hard he is. His hips roll, sending Matty forward with the force so he has to catch himself on his hands, push back into Brady’s hold. Brady twists his hand into Matty’s hair, pulls him back harder, until Matty’s got his spine arched harshly, leaning into the pull, hissing in pain. “You gonna let me fuck you?” Brady asks.

“Yeah. Yes,” Matty answers right away, eager. Brady lets go of his hair in favor of grabbing him by the hips again, rocking him back onto Brady’s lap like a promise.

“God, I bet you love it,” Brady says. “Bet you’re so good for it.”

“Brady,” Matty whines, pushing his face to the bed, hot with shame.

“You better not let anyone else fuck you. Not while you’re my girl.” He holds Matty to him harshly, fingers twisting the panties up so tight that they cut into Matty’s cock head, stinging pressure. “No one else gets this.”

“No. No one. Just you,” Matty pants.

“Good,” Brady says, petting down his sides, his hips where he’s going to bruise from Brady grabbing him. He can’t wait to see the bruises, push on them, get Brady to kiss them in apology. Brady slides the panties down Matty’s thighs, pulls them free of his legs, then groans, palming Matty’s ass in one hand. “You made them wet, babe. Got your panties all wet for me.”

Matty’s so glad his burning hot face is in the sheets, so glad Brady can’t see how hard it’s making him to hear him talk like this. It’s not like it really matters, Brady already has to know just how fucking into it Matty is. They wouldn’t be here otherwise. “Brady, come on, please,” Matty begs weakly.

“Please what, babe? What do you want, Matty?” He spreads Matty’s cheeks wide, thumbs pressed almost to his rim. Matty turns his head to glance over his shoulder where Brady is staring down at him.

“Fuck me,” Matty says just as Brady’s dry finger rubs over his hole. A desperate edge to his voice, he repeats, “Fuck me. Right there.”

“Here?” Brady questions, thumb circling his hole. Matty pushes back into it, moaning. Brady reaches around him, two fingers dragging over the sticky head of Matty’s cock, getting them wet and bringing them back to draw down the crack of his ass. It’s just wet enough for him to get the tip of his finger in without hurting, up to the first knuckle. “You’re tight, huh? Gonna have to make you take it.”

Matty wishes he’d known, would have had more time to prepare for Brady to be like this. He shouldn’t be surprised, Brady’s loud—not in a running his mouth type of way, not like Matty, but when he’s got something he wants to say, he does. He should have seen this coming, Brady’s eyes, his hands on Matty’s ass at every opportunity that he got.

He swipes his fingers over Matty’s cock once more, spreads them over his hole, holds him open, and then his mouth is there, tongue licking between. Matty jolts, crying out half in surprise, half in complete and utter devastation as Brady’s tongue presses and curls, licking into him. He bites Matty’s ass cheek, and starts all over again, getting his fingers wet with pre-come, pushing them into Matty, and licking it away until Matty’s a shaking mess, willfully trying to bunch the blankets up between his legs to have something to rub against, something more than Brady’s fleeting touch. Brady keeps pulling him away, back onto his mouth, not letting Matty get any relief.

“Brady, please,” Matty sobs.

Brady plants one last sucking kiss on him before he leans up. He still has all of his clothes on while Matty is entirely naked, Matty realizes when he hears Brady’s zipper. A second later, Brady’s got his cock out, rubbing the length of it over him. He gets up onto his palms for leverage, pushes back into it. He knows he’s not ready enough for Brady’s cock, but he doesn’t care, wants it too much. Brady presses in where Matty’s wet from his mouth, opening him up slowly, and it burns, too dry, too tight, but Matty doesn’t want him to stop, loves it. Brady pulls back, and Matty whimpers, trying to follow.

“Stay there,” Brady says, squeezing Matty’s hips before he moves away.

Matty shivers but doesn’t move. The sheets beneath him are smeared black and red with makeup. He must be a wreck, mascara and lipstick all over his face. Blindly, he wipes at his lips, his eyes, trying to clean up before Brady comes back. It probably doesn’t do him any good.

They’re skin to skin when Brady kneels behind Matty, naked. He drips lube from above, cold down Matty’s crack, and uses his thumb to push it into him. He doesn’t go any further than that and his cock is there, pressed to Matty’s hole. “I didn’t grab a condom,” he says, pausing.

“Okay,” Matty breathes, arching back against Brady, trying to get him in.

Brady holds him in place. “You sure?”

“I’ve never done it bare before. I want you to.”

Matty doesn’t hear what Brady says as he starts to push forward, so focused on the stretch. Matty fights to relax, but it’s a lot, too much to take in all at once. He pants, clutching up the sheets and biting into them as Brady keeps going, slow and easy. His hands are gentle on Matty’s back, his thumb pressed right above where he’s opening Matty up with his big dick. He whimpers when it’s all in, deep to the heart of him, pressed thigh to thigh. He reaches back and clutches at Brady’s leg to stop him from moving just yet.

“You’re doing so good, babe,” Brady says. His thumbs sweep circles over Matty’s hips, comforting. “You’re taking it so well. You’ve got me in there deep.” He cups his hands around Matty’s stomach, putting just enough pressure on him that when he rocks forward, Matty swears he can feel him even deeper.

Matty’s been hard for so long, it feels like he has a whole separate heartbeat in his lower body, throbbing. He lets Brady move, and it only gets worse. Brady starts slow, long drags that seem to go on forever, getting him used to it. He pulls Matty back onto him, gets his thighs spread and holds him there, lighting Matty up inside when he starts to pound in. It leaves Matty breathless, scrambling at the mattress for anything to hold onto. Brady’s hand is planted right to the curve of Matty’s spine, pinning him there with his hips angled up so harshly that it would hurt if he wasn’t fucking Matty so good.

“God, you love it. You love it so fucking much,” Brady is saying as he lifts Matty up. Brady kisses his neck, pulls his head back to kiss him, and Matty arches against him, too caught up in it to really kiss him back, just panting against his mouth. He rolls his hips, riding down on Brady in the best way possible. “Hold on,” Brady tells him, pulling away suddenly. It’s too sudden an emptiness, and it leaves Matty struggling to hold himself upright, braced on his knees, shaking.

Brady lays down, guides Matty toward him, and Matty freezes up, self-conscious with an all too substantial hit of reality. Brady wants Matty to ride him. It shouldn’t be a problem, but Brady hasn’t touched Matty’s cock, not really, hasn’t looked at it, not like this, and it’s just there, ruining the whole dynamic they have going. He presses it up against his belly, holds it there tightly, hot humiliation rushing through him. He wishes he still had the panties on, something to keep it out of sight so he could be better for Brady, more what he wants.

“Hey, come on,” Brady says, knuckles knocking against Matty’s thigh. Matty tries to swing around to ride him reverse but Brady stops him, pulls him back around. “Like this, Matty, want to see you, come on.” He grabs up Matty’s wrists, pulls his hands away from himself and pins them behind his back with one hand, uses his other to get lined up where he needs to get into Matty again. Matty sits back on him, takes him all the way in. Matty’s cock bobs heavy against his stomach with every movement, sending a hot rush of shame up his spine, making his face burn and his knees clench against Brady’s sides. Brady lets go of his wrists to hold onto his hips, rocking them together, and Matty fists up his cock again, hides it. Brady stops him, doesn’t let him move. “Baby, let me see. I want to see how much you like it. Show me how good it is for you.”

Matty loosens his fingers and sets his palms against Brady’s chest, while Brady praises him, runs his hands up and down Matty’s sides to ease out the tension. Slowly, he brings a hand down to Matty’s cock, careful and watchful as he touches him. Matty rolls into it, tensing up and moaning when Brady gets braver, starts to stroke Matty in time with his movements, slow when Matty’s slow, twisting his wrist when Matty grinds down on him. It’s not going to take long, tight and hot in his gut, a tension building in his balls and his taint, ready to pop off.

He gets more urgent, riding down hard into the cradle of Brady’s hips, so close. Brady won’t shut up, won’t stop telling him how good he is, how beautiful he is, how hot he looks on Brady’s cock. It makes Matty frantic. He wants to be all of those things for Brady. He’s so close, so close, so close, and Brady says, “God, Matty, you’re the best pussy I’ve ever had.”

Matty loses it, goes off hard. Thank god the house is empty, he doesn’t have to worry about being quiet, moaning Brady’s name like a fucking hymn. Brady fucks up into him through it, until Matty’s slouching over, can’t hold himself up anymore, wrung out. Brady gets him twisted over, laid out on the bed on his back. “It’s okay, you can keep going,” Matty slurs weakly, spreading his legs and urging down on Brady’s hips to get him between them again.

Brady’s already climbing over him though, moving up to straddle his chest. He fists Matty’s hair in one hand, his cock in the other, and Matty moans and opens his mouth in offering as Brady jerks off over him. “Jesus fuck, Matty,” Brady groans, pulling his hair even harder so Matty has no choice but to lay there under him with his lips parted, staring up at him. The first spurt hits Matty’s cheek, and he closes his eyes as Brady comes over his open mouth and across his face.

It’s messy, and Matty stays still until Brady eases up on his hair then closes his mouth, licks over his lips. He catches Brady’s fingers with his tongue, the tip of his cock, and licks with purpose, Brady shivering as Matty cleans him up. When he finally pulls away, he lays down over Matty, settles on top of him, and kisses Matty’s cheek, his lips. Matty pushes his tongue into Brady’s mouth and he sucks on it, filthy. Matty can’t help but smile into the kiss, pleased.

“I wanna come in you and then eat you out,” Brady whispers. He bites Matty’s chin right after he says it and Matty hums. “I want you to buy a garter belt and stockings that match those white panties so I can fuck you while you wear them.”

“Yes,” Matty agrees, easy. “Whatever you want.”

Brady cleans up the worst of his mess from Matty’s face and leads him to the bathroom. While Brady gets the shower started, Matty groans at his own reflection. The eye makeup is smeared and tracked down his face, where it ran with sweat and tears. The lipstick is mostly just gone, but there’s still a vivid streak across his cheek somehow. He’s got hickeys on his chest, bruises already coloring across his hips.

“You’re an animal,” Matty grumbles on his way past Brady into the shower.

“You love it,” Brady replies, stepping in behind him.

Matty busies himself standing under the spray of the shower, face tilted up into it. More to get clean than anything, but he’s given Brady enough ego stroking today to last an eternity, he doesn’t want to have to admit again just how much he does love it. He scrubs over his face with his hands, trying to wash away the last of the makeup. He can feel Brady hovering behind him and backs up into him. Brady’s hands circle around his hips and he presses a kiss to the side of Matty’s neck, soft. Matty slicks his wet hair back and turns in Brady’s arms.

“Did I get it all?” he asks, wiping over his face and checking his fingers. There’s still little flecks of black on his fingertips.

“No.” Brady smiles, fond. He grabs soap and squeezes some onto his fingers. “Close your eyes, I’ll do it.”

Matty closes his eyes, tilts his head back. Brady makes a small abortive sound and takes Matty by surprise by kissing him. It’s light and sweet, not going anywhere, but it makes Matty want to look at Brady, see what his face is doing, but Brady doesn’t let him, wiping soap onto his cheeks and lathering it up toward his eyes. He’s gentle, sweeping his fingers across his lids, his eyelashes lightly.

“Close your mouth, dumbo,” Brady says, moving lower to finish washing Matty’s face.

“Don’t be mean to me, you literally fucked my brains out.”

He expects Brady to make a joke about how he didn’t have any brains to begin with but he just sighs, pushes Matty’s jaw upwards to get his mouth closed, soapy fingers working over his chin and across his lips.

“We must be really screwed up for doing this.” Matty inhales sharply, Brady’s voice, his words unexpected. He can’t open his eyes or his mouth without getting soap in them, and it feels purposeful, Brady continually mapping his fingertips across Matty’s face, the suds an excuse to keep doing it. “I want so many fucked up things from you and you just keep letting me have them. I thought you would have told me no a long time ago, but here we are, Matty. You can say no to me, you don’t have to do all this fucked up shit just because I want it.”

Matty grabs Brady’s hands, steps away. He has to move away to get under the spray of the water again, but he keeps his hand on Brady’s, doesn’t want him to think he’s trying to get away from him. He rinses quickly, until he’s pretty sure he’s not going to end up blinded with soap, and closes in on Brady, even closer than before. “It’s fucked up, I’m not going to pretend it’s not,” he starts, voice only shaking a little under the weight of Brady’s concerned frown. “We have to be careful, no one can ever find out, but I love you, you’re my little brother and that’s never going to fucking change. If I ever wanted to say no to you, I would have. I will.”

Maybe someday, maybe Brady will ask for something that’s too fucked up even for Matty to give him, but for now it’s a resounding yes. He wants everything Brady wants. They have to figure out how to keep it hidden, when their parents are home, when Taryn is around. They have to be so careful, more careful than they have been. There’s a whole lot of summer left, and beyond that. Matty thinks about buying his own place in Calgary where Brady can visit. They only play each other twice a year, but it’s two times they’re guaranteed to get to see each other during the season. When they have breaks, people expect them to be together, with family. They’re brothers, no one will question why they spend so much time together. No one will know.

“My dirty little secret,” Brady says, squeezing Matty’s ass as he presses him back against the wall.

“Don’t talk dirty to me, my dick can’t get hard again after what you did to me.” Matty pushes weakly at his shoulders more for the effect, not really trying to get him away.

Brady dips his hand lower, spreads Matty with his fingers, just barely grazing over his used, sensitive hole. Matty’s head knocks back against the shower wall, cock twitching with interest despite his words.

“Wanna bet?” Brady asks, smile sharp and devilish as he pushes the tip of his finger inside.

Matty doesn’t say no.


End file.
